


Leaving Home Behind

by teand



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-31
Updated: 2007-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-31 15:21:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/345629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teand/pseuds/teand
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not even Bonnie and Clyde could look cool in a Buick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leaving Home Behind

**Author's Note:**

> coda to episode 215 Nightshifter

They stuck to the back roads for a couple of days, not making any time but off the grid so completely they didn't even have cell reception until almost dark on day three when they stopped for gas at a single pump outside a general store somewhere in rural Iowa about two hours north of the Missouri state line.

Dean had the nozzle in the tank when he looked up to see Sam pull his phone out of his pocket and begin to thumb in a number. "Hey!" When Sam looked up, he nodded toward the phone. "Not a good idea."

Sam stared at him for a long moment. "You think the feds are..."

"Sneaky sons of bitches? Yeah."

"And they're doing what? Random sweeps of cell phone calls from space just in case we call out for pizza or something?"

Sam had his bitch face on but Dean didn't care. "Maybe."

"Jesus, Dean..."

Dean glanced over his shoulder at the old man inside at the store counter, just barely visible through grimy windows. Brows drawn in, he hissed, "Don't use my name you ass!"

"Don't call me an ass just because you have no idea of how cell phones work!"

"That wasn't why I was calling you an ass. You ass!"

It was the longest conversation they'd had since leaving the bank.

"Dean..."

"I mean it, Sam..."

Crap.

Which was when his cell phone rang.

Sam's brows rose pointedly. "You going to get that?"

Digging his phone out of his pocket, he checked the screen. "Ellen."

"You might as well answer it," Sam sighed, sagging back against the car. "You know she'll just keep calling."

"We should ditch these phones."

"Just fucking answer it, Dean! We're running blind here, maybe..." Sam scrubbed at his face with his hands. He looked like Dean felt. Tired. Strung-out. A little grey. "Maybe she can help."

"We don't need..." But he couldn't get the word out. He'd lied to Sam plenty of times – _"Of course Dad'll be back in time." "It looks worse than it is." "Dude, I can manage without you, just get on the damned bus."_ \-- but he liked to think he never lied to himself. "Yeah. Okay." A deep breath, redolent with the comforting smell of hot metal and fossil fuel. "Hey, Ellen."

"What the hell have you two boys been up to? You don't think you have enough on your plate with that yellow eyed s.o.b. and Hunters going after Sam that you have to get involved in some kind of hostage situation in a bank?!"

Wincing a little – Ellen's volume was impressive -- Dean canted the phone out from his ear and beckoned Sam closer. "You heard about that?"

"Heard about it? All three networks have been running the channel 8 feed. That's a lovely shot of you at the bank door, Dean, we can use it at the wake!"

"She sounds pissed," Sam murmured.

Dean rolled his eyes. "She always sounds pissed."

"Of course I'm pissed! And I'm not deaf!"

"There was a shifter..."

"I don't want to hear it. Ash says there's a federal APB out on both of you and the Impala." She took a moment then and Dean could almost see her leaning against the bar, eyes closed. "I know how you feel about that car, Dean." Her voice was softer now. "It was your daddy's car and it's all you have left of him but you have to get rid of it. It's too obvious. People notice it."

"So we'll change the plates..."

"They're not looking for the fucking plates, Dean!" Her voice rose again. "They're looking for a black, '67 Chevy Impala in road condition. You know how many of them there are out there? How many forty year old cars are still being driven? Not too damned many, that's how many! Get rid of it!"

"No."

"Fine. But it's not just your funeral, Dean. It's Sam's too!"

Ears ringing, Dean figured Ellen kept the old wall phone just so she could hang it up like that. The tank filled, he shoved the cell back in his pocket, returned the hose to the pump, screwed on the gas cap, and turned to face his brother. "Say it."

Sam shrugged, wearily. "You know she's right."

"Fuck you." He stroked the warmed metal, pulling the shine back up from under the layers of dust. After the third, or maybe fourth stroke, he jerked his hand back, rubbed it against his jeans and growled, "I'm going to pay for the gas. If you need to piss do it now because I'm not stopping until..."

Not the time to think of roadblocks and too many cops with guns and Faye Dunaway dancing to the impact... bleeding... dying.

The old guy in the store took his money with a grunt, waited until Dean was almost at the door before he said, "Nice car. Sixty-seven right? Don't see too many of them around anymore."

Letting the ancient screen door slam behind him, Dean shot a tight smile up at the sky and muttered, "And fuck you too." He didn't need Ellen going all doom and gloom, he didn't need some rheumy Yoda backing her play, and he didn't need to stick around this shithole any longer. "Get in the car, Sam."

"Where are we heading?"

"Just get in the damned car!" And if it sounded more like desperation than anger, at least it got Sam's ass into the passenger seat.

They were about an hour into Missouri, in full dark, when Sam said quietly, "Safer to drive at night." and he snarled without thinking, "You see me stopping?"

Snarled before he realized it was Sam trying to find something they could talk about because the silence left them nothing to do but get chased around inside their own skulls, wound tighter and tighter. Dean watched another three miles tick by then he said, matching Sam's tone, "Maybe we can find an old barn to hole up in after sunrise."

Then he waited. Fortunately, Sam had always been smarter than him.

"Odds are good. It's a pretty depressed area; there's plenty of abandoned farms around."

"Fucker'll probably be haunted." Dean blew out an exaggerated sigh and was rewarded by an almost believable chuckle from the other side of the car.

"Yeah, well, I'd welcome a problem we could solve with a couple of rounds of rocksalt right about now."

_"...Bonnie to your Clyde._

He'd got Sam into this. He should have been more careful. More paranoid. He should have fucking _known_. "Sammy..."

"No you didn't."

That drew his eyes off the cow track they were on that laughingly passed for a rural Missouri road. "You reading my mind now, freak?"

Teeth flashed in the darkness of the car. "You're an open book to me, Dean. Always have been. It's a short book, mind you, with small words and lots of pictures. Kind of 'See Dean. See Dean drive. See Dean blame himself for things he couldn't have pre... DEER!"

"Yes, honey? OW!" He felt the impact of Sam's fist from bicep to fingertips.

"You were looking at me and there was a deer on the road!"

"Did we hit it?"

"We obviously didn't..."

"Then I obviously saw it, Einstein."

"Dick!"

"Jane... Don't hit me again!" He caught Sam's wrist and shoved his arm back on his own side of the car. "You don't know your own strength, you troll!"

"Pixie."

"Hey, pixies can be mean."

This time the chuckle was sincere. "But short."

Sam was ready for the punch but Dean got it in under his guard and then wrestled the car back on the road before it slid too far into the ditch.

"Hey, Sammy, remember when that pixie in Alabama got into the glove compartment..."

_Remember when we drove right into that swamp following the corpse candles. Remember when Dad ran down that headless horseman and the whole car smelled like rotten pumpkin for a month. Remember when I drove for six hours with the tank reading empty and you threatened to take the car to Paster Jim for an exorcism._

"Hey, you want me to drive for a while?"

Dean felt his fingers tighten around the steering wheel. "Please, you brake for hobbits and unicorns. Just keep us heading vaguely south and off the main roads."

Just after dawn they found a place that had probably been abandoned for thirty years. The house had a distinct lean to the left and the wind had got in through some broken boards ripping nearly the whole west wall of the barn off but the machine shed was in better shape and Sam managed to wrestle the big doors open without bringing the whole thing down on his head.

Dean drove the Impala carefully across the cracked cement floor while Sam pulled the doors closed again. With the engine turned off, the only thing Dean could hear was the ping of cooling metal, the soft shush of Sam's footsteps as he walked further into the shed, and the pounding of his heart as he forced himself to let go of the steering wheel. Opening his door, he slid out of the car and stretched, conscious of Sam watching him.

When he slammed the door, the crack echoed.

"We'll be safe here," Sam murmured.

"Have you seen that?" Dean asked, looking at the inside of the shed, looking at an ancient swallow's nest up on the rafters, looking at a shaft of sunlight angling through a crack in the wall and painting the concrete by his boots a honey gold, looking at anything but his brother. "You know, _seen_ that? Because I'm thinking this could be a trap just as easily. They get us surrounded and we've got no where to go."

No need to look at Sam to know he was rolling his eyes impatiently. "They who Dean?"

He ran a hand back through his hair. "Does it matter? We should stay in the car. Just in case."

"Just in case?"

"Yeah."

"All right. Fine." His tone said, _My brother is a moron._. "I'll flip you for the back seat."

He looked at Sam then. "No."

"No? Oh." Hazel eyes widened. "Dean, I don't think..."

"Yeah, I know. And I don't want to." The words spilled out sharper than he'd intended.

Sam stared at him, like he could read Dean's thoughts from his face. Road blocks and bullets and blood spilled red on the ground. Two long strides closed the distance between them and Sam's fingers closed on the front of Dean's jacket.

"Sammy..." Christ, he hoped that hadn't sounded as desperate coming out of his mouth as it had inside his head. Then it didn't matter as Sam's mouth closed over his. Warm. Gentle...

Warm and gentle wasn't going to be nearly enough.

He caught Sam's lower lip between his teeth and bit down. Then he did it again just to hear the needy gasp. One hand behind Sam's head, he worked his tongue past spit-slick lips and into his brother's mouth. Sam tasted like three days of bad food and worse coffee and sleeping in the car – he tasted like their past, and their future, and the only thing Dean had left to live for.

His free hand groped for the back door of the Impala. His fingers closed around the chrome, then Sam's were there with him and they yanked open the door together.

Dean pulled back just far enough to growl, "Inside. Now."

Definitely a good thing that they'd spent their entire lives learning the dimensions of the car...

Sam folded past metal edges, crab-walked backwards along the length of the seat until his back hit the opposite door. Dean threw himself forward, slamming the door closed behind him.

"Maybe we should have..."

"Shut-up." The only room left was between Sam's legs and that was exactly where Dean wanted to be. His mouth was against the pulse point in Sam's neck, teeth and tongue working the skin, while both hands went to the waist of Sam's jeans. Belt, button, zipper... He got a good grip on the waistband, arched his back up along the curve of the roof to make a little more room and yanked, dragging the fabric down over narrow hips and the sweet curve of Sam's ass.

"I was just saying, maybe we should have done this part outside," Sam muttered, legs bent, feet working against each other in the bend of Dean's knees as he struggled to shove his left boot off.

"No." Dean got the jeans and boxers down to mid-thigh, sat back on his heels and lifted Sam's legs up onto his lap.

"No?" Sam bent his left leg along the seatback, up almost to his chest and Dean pulled the fabric clear, throwing it to his left where it hung around Sam's right ankle, out of the way. "If we'd stripped down before... GodfuckDean!"

A long swipe of his tongue in the crease between thigh and groin – first one side then the other. They hadn't showered since just before the bank and the scent – heated, musky skin, sex and Sam – combined with the warmed leather smell of the seat was making him a little light headed. He buried his face in wiry curls, nuzzled his way to the base of Sam's cock, dipped lower to pull at the velvet sack with his lips, drawing first one ball and then the other into his mouth, blowing cold air across wet skin just to hear Sam whimper.

Fingers clutched at his shoulder, stuttered against his hair as he looked up. Sam had his head thrown back against the window, eyes closed, long line of his throat exposed. Dean stared, because he could, then bent just far enough to lap gently at the top of Sam's cock.

Sam swallowed, his hips rocked up, and he murmured, "Tease."

And that was the last coherent thing he said as Dean fisted the base, hollowed his cheeks, and slid his lips down to meet his hand. Hard, wet, suction, up and down, working his tongue against the knot of nerves under the curve of the head. Two fingers in beside the heated column of his brother's flesh then, slick with spit, thrust deep into Sam's body.

Sam writhed as much as the close confines of the car allowed, Dean's weight pinning him against the leather. He keened under his breath, wordless noises that drove Dean crazy, that drowned out the needy noises Dean was making around the heavy stretch of Sam's cock in his mouth.

After Sam came, one word falling from his mouth over and over, Dean pressed his cheek against the damp t-shirt sticking to Sam's stomach, stretched out an arm, and, although the angle was incredibly awkward, pulled a small bottle of lube out from the debris under the front seat.

One big hand rubbing languidly up and down Dean's back, Sam chuckled. "How did you know that was there?"

"Kicked it under couple months ago in Minnesota."

"When I nearly froze my ass to the window?"

"Good times."

"For you maybe."

Dean struggled up onto his knees, breath hissing through his teeth as engorged flesh rubbed against metal.

"That looks painful."

His jeans only needed to go as far down as mid thigh but first he had to ease the zipper down over an erection he could jack the car up on. "Shut up and roll over."

Later, Sam murmured, "We need to start keeping a blanket back here."

"Princess."

"You gaining weight?"

"Bitch."

Just before dawn, Dean stirred in the circle of Sam's arms. "You awake?"

Sam cracked an eye and muttered, "I think my spine has been fused into an unnatural shape."

"I need you to fuck me."

That snapped both eyes open. Sam shifted just enough to stare down at him. "Now?"

Which just proved to Dean that he should never operate his mouth before his first cup of coffee. "Forget it." He tried to pull away but with the two of them crammed into the Impala's backseat, there was no away to pull to.

"Wait." Sam tightened his hold, forcing Dean to still. "I'm sorry. I didn't..." He drew in a long breath, let it out slowly, and bent his head...

This time, warm and gentle was exactly what Dean needed.

***

"Turn left at the next intersection." Sam squinted down at the circle of map illuminated by the flashlight beam. "That'll bring us out to number 34 and a straight run for almost sixty miles. We turn onto 61 then and we can be there before sunup."

Dean snorted. "You don't even know where we're going."

"We're going to Bobby's."

Dean stared out at the road, paved at least but still too narrow for any kind of lines. If he looked at Sam, he'd do or say something he knew he'd regret and that would be more than stupid since it hadn't been Sam's decision. "You take that out of my head?" he asked at last.

"I know what goodbye feels like, Dean," Sam said softly.

***

"Remember the bag of crayons that melted on the back window?"

"I remember having nothing to color with but this big blob of multi-colored wax. And then you broke chunks off and showed me how to make lines with three colors at once."

"You said I was your hero."

"The hell I did. You left the bag up there in the first place."

"Remember that time it was snowing so hard the wipers couldn't handle it and we had stick our heads out the window and shout directions at Dad?"

"And you had a little trouble telling left from right."

"I liked the old guy who pulled us out of the ditch."

"Yeah, he was cool."

"I lost my virginity in this car."

"So did I. Couple of times."

Neither of them mentioned that Dean had rebuilt this car pretty near from scratch less than a year ago. That this wasn't actually the car they remembered.

***

"It's a Buick. It's a ten year old Buick Regal."

"Dean..."

Dean ran a hand back over his hair. "Bobby, I can't drive this car. I wouldn't be caught dead in this car!"

"That's the idea," Bobby grunted, wiping his hands on a piece of old flannel shirt. "Can't be Bonnie and Clyde in a Buick Regal."

"Bonnie and Clyde?" Dean stomped half a dozen steps away and back again. "You can't be Thelma and Louise in a Buick Regal!"

Bobby frowned. "So which of you is...?"

"That's not the point! The point is this car is... is..."

"Ignorable. But in this case there's a little extra under the hood, and a good solid hiding place for your weapons inside the backseat and there's half a dozen extra plates in a secret compartment in the trunk." As both Winchesters turned to stare, Bobby shrugged. "That Impala's the kind of car that gets noticed. I've been working on this for a while."

"If it's so fucking noticeable, why'd you let me rebuild it?"

"John loved that car," he said, "and when he gave it to you, that was his way of saying he loved you. You made it yours and for Sam that meant it had to come back so you'd come back. I let you rebuild because it meant you boys were rebuilding your lives."

"And you couldn't have stopped me," Dean growled staring at the packed dirt by the toe of his boot.

"There's that too," Bobby acknowledged. "Car's a symbol. Of what it meant to be John Winchester. Of what it means to be Dean Winchester." He glanced at Sam and his mouth twisted into something not quite a sympathetic smile. "Of what it means to be a son and a brother in that fucked up family of yours. But it's become a symbol to the cops too. Strangely enough..." He frowned. "...a symbol of almost exactly the same things. Of what it means to be a Winchester."

"They don't know what the hell that means!"

"No, they don't. And, unfortunately, they're never going to give you the chance to explain." Shoving the rag into his back pocket, Bobby gripped Dean's shoulder. "Drive the Buick, Dean. Don't die in a puddle of blood by the side of the road."

"Never knew you were such a philosopher," Sam said quietly as Dean shook himself free of Bobby's touch.

The older man hacked a lougie into the dirt. "Yeah, well, I spend a lot of time in the sun."

***

"Bobby'll take care of her."

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean could see Sam rubbing at a dent in the unfamiliar dash. "I know."

"You can drive her again as soon as it's safe."

"And you're delusional, Sammy." He'd left her parked in a back corner of Bobby's lot, under a tarp, and if he'd murmured, _I'm sorry, baby._ as the tarp descended well, he'd been the only one there to hear. "The feds are the least of our problems," he continued, his voice artificially bright. "Don't forget we've got a bunch of guys almost as well trained and dangerous as we are trying to blow you away."

Beside him, Sam matched his tone. "Not to mention we're heading for a demonic Armageddon."

"Kind of puts the FBI in perspective." Sam snorted and Dean smiled, actually smiled because he still had the road and he still had Sam and... Fuck it. He was twenty-eight years old, maybe it was past time he left home.

He could hear Sam shifting, trying to find a comfortable angle for his legs, snickered at the crack of kneecap against the dash board...

"There's not enough leg room in here," Sam muttered.

"Don't blame the car for that, Sasquatch."

"I should get my hair cut."

"Should've known it would take a federal warrant."

"You should grow yours out. Bleach it maybe."

"Learn to surf?"

"In your copious amount of spare time." Sam shifted again and closed his hand lightly over Dean's thigh. "Money's tight and they'll track the cards. We should skip a motel tonight and spend it in the car."

Wrong car. "Forget it, Sam, I'm not in the mood..."

"Remember what we were doing in Minnesota when I almost froze my ass to the glass?"

On the other hand they were stuck with it for now. "You'd do that again?"

"I would."

"You think this piece of shit's up to that?"

"Only one way to find out."

"A fucking Buick." He was not going to admit that putting the radio and tape deck controls on the steering wheel was a good idea. "You know, Bonnie and Clyde drove a Ford."

He almost heard Sam's mouth fall open. "You're embarrassed about dying in this car!"

"I am not!" He swerved up on the ramp to the highway a little faster than was safe. Wrestling the car through the S curve, he tromped the gas as he pulled onto a nearly empty interstate. Took it up to eighty.

It wasn't a bad car but...

"Maybe. A little. It's a fucking Buick, Sam."

"I guess we'll just have to not die then. No hail of bullets by the side of the road. No embarrassing pictures in the paper."

"Not dying is a plan." Dean reached across the seatback, let his thumb rest lightly on the soft skin under Sam's ear, let the car slide sweetly back to fifty-five. If blood and bullets by the side of the road had been taken off the schedule, then getting a speeding ticket was right out. A ticket in this car, that'd kill him for sure.

\--end--


End file.
